The Falcon at the Portal - Elizabeth Peters [157]
As Emerson says, one can always count on a touch of comic relief in our family.
There was no creeping up on the plotters unannounced, for we were observed approaching by an alert guard and hailed in a loud voice. When we got to the saloon, where they were finishing dinner, both young men were on their feet and all three faces wore insincere smiles of welcome. The unpacking of the trifle—a good deal of which had slopped over the sides of the bowl—occasioned some mirth. Karima scraped the remains onto plates, and in duty bound we all ate some of it.
Emerson soon began to fidget. He is not a patient man, and he had a great deal on his mind. Since I did not want Karima and the other servants to overhear, I managed, with little nudges and winks, to keep the conversation on casual subjects until after we had retired to the upper deck for coffee, and Karima had left us alone.
Lia had already expressed her pleasure at seeing us—“so unexpectedly”—and I had already apologized for breaking my own rule about dropping in uninvited. I did not doubt all three knew there was some purpose in our coming; the only question in my mind was whether Ramses would confess before his father accused him.
Emerson did not give him time, supposing he had intended to. “What the devil are you up to now?” he demanded.
The disadvantage of the ambience was that I could not make out their faces clearly. Candles in pottery bowls shone softly, but gave little light. I saw only Ramses’s hands as he put his cup down on the nearest table. They were always scratched and scraped, for, like his father, he is forgetful about wearing gloves when he is digging.
“I suppose I should apologize for not confiding in you and Mother,” he said. “I gave my word I would not.”
“Be damned to that,” said Emerson. “Yes, sir.”
“Was it Wardani who swore you to secrecy?” “No, sir.”
“We had better confess,” David said, over the low rumble from Emerson that betokened an imminent explosion.
“I wish you would,” Lia murmured. “I hate keeping secrets, especially from Aunt Amelia and the Professor.”
“Ha!” said Emerson. “Well, Ramses?”
It was as if, having made up his mind to speak, Ramses was anxious to unburden himself (or possibly he was anxious to get it over so he could go about whatever business he had planned for that night).
“I have been working for Mr. Russell, who is attempting to put an end to the traffic in drugs. One of the persons involved is rumored to be an Englishman. David and I have been trying to infiltrate one of the gangs in order to learn who this man is. Thus far—”
I could contain myself no longer. “Russell, did you say? Confound the man, I told him in the most decided terms that you were not to be a policeman!”
“Police spy,” Ramses corrected. “Why mince words? Perhaps you now understand why I did not inform you. There’s not much point in being a spy if everybody knows you are one.”
“We are not everybody,” said his father, unmoved by the bitterness in his voice—or so I believe, until Emerson added, “And there is no shame in spying if it is for a worthy cause. Where did you get the idea that an Englishman was involved?”
“Wardani. It occurred to me that he might have invented it, just to make mischief—he’s quite capable of that—but the rumors are out there. We’ve heard them for ourselves.” His head turned toward me and he added seriously, “Where there is smoke there is fire, you know.”
There is no doubt that confession is good for the soul, depending, of course, on who is confessing and to whom. Ramses leaned back and lit a cigarette; his father took out his pipe; Lia poured coffee; and David let out